Epilogue
LEVI
Three Years Later
From the shadows, I observe Summer swim.
It’s become our annual tradition to visit my father’s resorts—first in Greece, then St. Lucia, and this year in Belize. This year, however, I have something extra planned.
I slip out the side entrance and around the pool, quietly climbing in on the side opposite of her.
We’re staying in another private suite, but this pool is about double the first year’s.
She’s been lapping it for the past few minutes, celebrating the anniversary of her father’s death in her own silent way.
She hasn’t said anything about the date, but I know.
She’s barely spoken about his death at all. At first, I assumed it was grief triggered by their father-daughter relationship. A few months after the whole event, when she started to calm down and understand there’d be no fall-out for me, she admitted to being relieved he was dead.
Still, it’s become a strange day for her.
I move through the waves, reaching her as she takes a swimming break to hoist herself over the edge. She stretches for a slice of pineapple, followed by a sip from her pina colada.
I grasp her waist, untie the tiny bikini bottoms that make me so fucking hard, and untuck myself from my shorts. One hand remains a fist, concealing the object within until later.
“Levi,” she gasps when I thrust inside her, impaling her on me in one go. She’s always wet, waiting for the unexpected. Anytime, anywhere—permission pre-granted. “Fuck.” The word is dragged out as I slowly slide from her and back in, changing the angle.
“Three blissful fucking years,” I grate into her ear. “You should know me by now: it won’t be enough. I’ll play with you however I desire.”
She moans my name again—this time, Hunter—because she’s come to using them interchangeably, claiming it’s both versions of me she fell in love with.
“After you come for me, go check your phone.”
After I give her two back-to-back orgasms, coming with her on the second, she obeys me. I tuck myself back into my swim shorts, then prepare the object in my hand.
On her phone, she’ll find a message from Lunar_Warden—because she’s never changed my name in her contacts, just like she’s still Vengeful_Summer in mine.
Marry me.
Not a question, a demand.
Because years of friendship and dating have proved exactly the kind of man I am.
I don’t seek permission.
She whirls, forming waves. Her bright gaze reflects the sky, focused on the object between my thumb and index finger.
The engagement ring.
“You already know, darling. You know I’ll do anything for you, including kill those who’d try to harm you. Be free with me, Sunshine. Put on the ring and make yourself a Westwood.”
Despite the proposal, she giggles. Over the years, my parents have come around to us together.
After finishing her degree and getting a job at one of the country’s top technology companies, she’s managed to shift enough of their classist thinking.
They’ve accepted there will never be another woman for me.
It doesn’t make them good people all of a sudden, but they’re no longer dropping hints to breakup with Summer.
Still, her jokes about a Westwood’s privilege have never been wrong.
“As long as I’m your Westwood, my last name doesn’t matter.”
“Damn right.” I slide the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
And then, I kiss her.
Finally, I got the girl.
Thank you for reading!